“A half a million dollars is a lot of money,” Wilson reminded him. “And also remember that the girl was the only one who knew where the idea started, or knew Alvaro’s connection with the affair at all.” He shrugged. “Maybe he stopped loving her. Or maybe he loved her too much. Humberto said she always met Chico outside, but I’m sure they must have had some pretty torrid telephone conversations, and I’m also sure most of them were picked up on tape.”
He paused, thinking, and then added with a faint smile, “And I’ll bet that suitcase down at the bottom of the ravine with the red car is either empty or it has a couple of last year’s telephone directories in it.”
Da Silva shook his head. “You’re wrong on that. I’d say it was almost definite that the suitcase has the money in it.”
Wilson studied his friend’s profile a moment, frowning.
“I don’t know how you can sound so sure. I see what you mean, though. After all, he didn’t know that Ricardo was going over the brink, taking that fortune with him. He thought the money would be where he could lay his hands on it any time until Saturday. So why take needless chances with an empty suitcase?” His frown disappeared, replaced with a faint smile. “He was saved the necessity of killing Ricardo, but he lost the money in the process.”
“A moral victory in a way, you think?”
“A bit of tough luck, I think,” Wilson said. “He doesn’t even know Ricardo is dead yet; all he knows is he’s missing. With the money—if you’re right about the suitcase. Two people murdered and no cash in the till. I would imagine he isn’t too pleased.”
Da Silva laughed. “How long have you been in Brazil, Wilson?”
“You asked me that the other day and I told you. Six years.” Wilson was mystified by both the laugh and the question. “Why?”
“Because,” Da Silva said, grinning broadly, “you still have a lot to learn about Brazil and Brazilians.”
“You said that the last time. Then it was the matter of favelas. This time, in all honesty, you’ve lost me.”
Da Silva grinned but said nothing. Wilson studied the enigmatic smile for several moments and then shrugged, leaning back, staring out of the window. It was rare when Da Silva chose to keep his thoughts to himself, but when he did there was nothing to do about it.
They were climbing the winding Rua Pacheco Leão; Da Silva had selected it as being the quickest way to the Estrada de Sumaré despite the greater distance. The tall detective, with the solution in hand, was in no mood for dawdling through the city’s traffic. The road was far too dangerous for excessive speed; Da Silva settled down to steady driving. Here in the midst of the mountainous forest the sight of the ocean was lost; small mud shacks thatched with palm fronds peeked out at intervals, each with its inevitable banana plant. It seemed strange, here in almost jungle wildness, to realize that just beyond the range through which they were passing, only minutes away, was a modern city with almost four million inhabitants.
They passed the Mesa do Imperador and came to the Rua Boa Vista. Da Silva followed it a short distance before cutting off sharply toward Sumaré. The Estrada itself began shortly thereafter, dropping slightly, and then suddenly the bay was before them, far below, glistening in the sun, and the city spreading in tiers to the blue waters beyond. Da Silva slowed down; on his right the wall surrounding the Xavier estate had begun. He followed it to the open wrought-iron gates and drove in. Again the driveway was crowded, but today even the parked limousines seemed to exude a funereal air proper to the occasion. The chauffeurs were not in evidence, undoubtedly in the rear of the estate, out of sight. Da Silva managed a parking space and got down, followed by Wilson.
The large front door of the mansion was open today, a black wreath mounted beneath the huge brass ornamental knocker. The old butler was stationed just inside the door, taking any hats or wraps anyone wished to deposit with him. He nodded formally to both Wilson and Da Silva, his face expressionless, but made no suggestion of announcing them. The reason was evident as soon as they stepped across the sill; within the house people stood in groups in every room visible, all looking solemn. Quiet servants were circulating among them, offering trays of food and drinks. Wilson frowned.
“How do we find him in this mob? When we don’t know him?”
Da Silva shook his head. “A little protocol, please. First let’s find our host and offer our sympathy. After all—”
“Sorry,” Wilson said. “All right; and then let’s get him in a quiet corner and find out which one here is Miguel Alvaro.”
Da Silva nodded his agreement and led the way into the house. With Wilson at his side he moved from room to room, politely refusing food and drink, nodding impersonally at strangers who nodded back in the same fashion. It was in the trophy room that he finally saw his quarry.
“Ah! There he is.” He moved forward, waited while the gray-haired handsome man accepted condolences from a woman dressed in black, and once she had moved on, Da Silva moved in. “Senhor Xavier—”
The gray-haired man turned. “Oh. Captain Da Silva. And Mr. Wilson, I believe.”
“A sad day for you, senhor,” Da Silva said quietly.
“Our sympathy,” Wilson added. He lowered his voice slightly. “Would it be possible for you to point out Miguel Alvaro for us, senhor?”
Xavier stared. “I beg your pardon? Alvaro?” He shrugged. “He’s here somewhere, but I have no idea where. Why would you gentlemen be interested?”
Da Silva intervened. “This is not the place to explain, senhor. If you would give us a few moments of your time, I think we could give you some information you should be the first to know.”
“But—” Xavier studied the swarthy face a moment and then nodded. “The library—”
The three men pushed through the people standing in the hallway. Xavier paused a moment to accept a solemn word from one man, and opened the door. He closed it behind them and walked to his chair behind the desk, sinking into it wearily.
“Yes? What about Alvaro?”
“I’ll be as quick as I can,” Da Silva said. “I know it’s been a sad day for you, senhor, and I’m afraid it will be sadder before it’s finished. I—”
The heavyset man’s patience ran out. “Alvaro is a person of my complete confidence. What about him?”
“About him?” Da Silva looked apologetic. “Mr. Wilson wanted to talk about him, senhor. Not me. I want to talk about you. About the fingerprints you left in Apartment 1612 last Tuesday evening when you strangled Romana Mariana Vilares. Before you went up to the Catatumbá and killed Chico. Your son.…”
Wilson’s eyes widened; he opened his mouth to speak and closed it. Francisco Xavier stared, his face suddenly white. He began to rise in his chair and then slowly settled down again; one hand started to move to the telephone but was slowly retracted. His eyes, enormous, never left the expressionless face of the man standing on the other side of the desk. Da Silva shook his head.
“I am not guessing, senhor. Even if you should attempt to use your influence in refusing to have your fingerprints taken, there must be hundreds in this house. And in your automobiles. And in your office. If automobile driving licenses had required fingerprints in the days when you got yours, I would have had you sooner.”
He leaned over, placing his hands on the desk, holding the other man’s gaze almost as if hypnotized.
“I am not guessing, senhor. Believe me. Besides, once these things begin to break open, they spill, they flood. We get more information than we need, more than we want. One of your servants who lives in the Catatumbá and directed you to Claudio Fonseca’s shack—how long do you think he remains anonymous? The tape recorder—where do we find it? In the house? In the car? We find it, that’s the important thing, and we discover that the feet of the machine fit exactly in the marks on the shelf in the maid’s room. You should have dusted the shelf, but I imagine you were busy.
“And we also find the maid. I’m sure you paid her enough to go far away and hide a long tim
e, but wherever she is there are also police, and empregadas who return home from Rio de Janeiro with money stand out like whales in a fountain, senhor. And, of course, we can get Alvaro to talk. I’m sure he’s loyal, but we can get him to talk. You know that.
“I realize how important influence is, and I do not underestimate it. But you must realize, senhor, that no amount of influence can hide this. Not the murder of a son.”
He leaned a bit closer, his voice quiet, almost soothing.
“Well, senhor? Do you want to tell us about it?”
Seated at one of the outdoor metal tables before Mario’s restaurant in Copacabana, Da Silva read the black headline for the fourth time and then folded the newspaper and tossed it down on the chair beside him. He reached for his glass of Reserva San Juan and stared across the table at Wilson.
“I wonder what it cost him to have that pistol smuggled into his cell?”
“Whatever it was, it was cheap, I suppose. Can you see a man with his exaggerated sense of pride living to stand trial for the murder of his son?”
“And of his mistress? That his son stole from him?” Da Silva shrugged. “Looking back now—which is always easy—I can see where they hated each other from the time of that accident in Nova Iguaçu. The boy never forgave the father for the death of his mother. And probably never forgave himself for either being too cowardly to accuse his father at the time or being too ‘family-minded.’ That’s in quotes, by the way.”
“I’m not so sure that accident had much to do with it,” Wilson said slowly. “That was a long time ago, and Xavier didn’t even mention it in his statement. No; I think it was pretty much the way he said—the thought that his son would combine with his mistress to cheat him—”
Da Silva looked up, his eyes twinkling. “Combine?”
Wilson was forced to grin. “You keep asking me how long I’ve been in Brazil. Obviously, too long. I’m beginning to speak English like a Brazilian. I meant ‘cooperate’ or ‘get together.’”
“I know what you meant; I just wondered if you did.”
Wilson loftily disregarded the comment. “As I was saying, the thought that his mistress and his son would get together to cheat him was just too much for a man like him. And it wasn’t the money—” He paused, staring at Da Silva. “Which reminds me: just why were you so certain that suitcase had the money in it? If Xavier already knew Chico was dead when he made up the suitcase, why put money in it?”
“That’s exactly what made me sure he put the money in,” Da Silva said. “He knew Chico was dead, but he certainly wasn’t supposed to know. The same reason he arranged a luncheon. I thought his excuse at the time was pretty thin—arranging a luncheon at few hours’ notice just so that everything would look normal. A luncheon arranged that quickly is scarcely normal. But go ahead with what you were saying.”
“All right. What I was going to say was that I’m not sure I believe his statement about not intending to kill Chico, that it was only when Chico knew he was caught and really told the old man off that he lost his head. And you notice that his statement never got around to saying just what it was that Chico said that made him lose his head.”
“I can imagine what Chico said.” Da Silva nodded. “When Xavier walked in on him, Chico knew he’d been caught with his hand in the cooky jar. And the only place he could conceive of his father learning had to be from Romana. Up until then, sleeping with his father’s property had been lovely revenge for many things, and fun besides, but I think the fun went out of it when he saw his father come through the door of that shack.” He shrugged. “I imagine at this point, having nothing to lose, he probably sounded off on every grievance, real and imagined, he’d had all his life. I’m sure it wasn’t pretty. And it was undoubtedly the wrong thing to say to a man who had just finished strangling his mistress.”
He smiled across the table. “It’s over; that’s the important thing. And largely thanks to your being bright enough to notice the dust in the maid’s room and build it up into a bugging apparatus feeding a tape recorder. That was a very good job.”
“An excellent job,” Wilson said sardonically. “So where did I go wrong? I thought my analysis of Alvaro’s actions and motives was perfect, especially when we found out he was the guarantor of the apartment lease.”
“I’m sure we’ll also find he signed the rent checks. Office managers do these things.” Da Silva grinned. “Remember I told you you had a lot to learn about Brazil and Brazilians? Well, no office manager in Brazil makes anything like the money needed to afford an apartment like that. It was utterly impossible for a man in Alvaro’s job to make anywhere near the amount of money he would have needed to pay the rent, let alone furnish it the way it was furnished.”
“Unless, of course,” Wilson pointed out, “he had money of his own.”
“And remained an office manager? It would be far too degrading for a Brazilian.”
“Or unless he embezzled some.…”
“Then my question would be even more pertinent: and remained an office manager? Generally, people who embezzle money do it to live better, and seldom hang around afterwards except in some very bad novels. No; it was obvious Alvaro was a front for someone more respectable, and who would it be? Only Xavier. Add to that the fact that Alvaro is only thirty years old; his fingerprints would be on record from his conscription days. We had to be looking for someone who either was a student with a conscription deferment or else someone who was older than twenty when universal conscription came in. Which would mean someone about Xavier’s age.”
Wilson sighed. “The next case I go on,” he promised fervently, “I take along a list of going wage rates, office managers included. Although,” he added, “on the basis of the logic you used, I’m the one who should have solved the case.”
Da Silva looked at him curiously. “How’s that?”
Wilson grinned a bit ruefully.
“Well,” he said, “I have trouble keeping me, let alone a girlfriend. All I had to do was look at my paycheck and then look at my rent.…”
Turn the page to continue reading from the Captain José da Silva Mysteries
1
Pre-Lenten Carnival in Bridgetown, Barbados, easternmost of the Lesser Antilles, with the SS Porto Alegre of Brazilian registry anchored out in the wide roadstead, swaying slightly in the wash of a lesser draft Panamanian freighter seeking a berth closer to land. Evening coming on with tropical swiftness, a smattering of stars beginning to pierce the velvet fabric of the sky, and the majority of the crew and passengers of the cruise ship already ashore by lighter, chaperoned by cruise director and directoress and intent upon escape, enjoying the heady sensation of distant places, the rich warmth of the Caribbean night, the gay costumes, the dancing in the streets, the hysteria—not the mad abandon of Rio de Janeiro, but still Carnival—the rum drinks thrust upon one from all sides, the beautiful women—again not Rio, but still …
Orange-red sun sinking fast in the west, a huge balloon being tugged from somewhere below the edge of the world into the darkening ocean; one expected a hiss as it went under, a sudden jetting of steam, but instead it merely flooded the ruffled surface with a shimmering carpet of gold from the ship to the horizon. Bridgetown proper on the ship’s starboard side to the east, lights beginning to flicker from the city poles planted before the low concrete-block warehouses at water’s edge, from Trafalgar Square visible behind a battery of fishing trawlers and yachts rocking at dockside before Nelson’s monument, their kerosene lanterns swinging on gimbals beside cabin hatchways or high on swaying crosstrees, brighter lights from the white buildings along Broad Street with their own generators, or from the verandaed homes hiding behind the thick stands of flamboyant and tamarind and casuarina trees on the low rolling slopes of the city. And the faint sound of raised voices chanting in the distance and music coming rhythmically over the choppy waves to the anchored ship.
A sound at the foot of the gangplank angled steeply down the side of the Porto Alegre, hug
ging the steel plates as if for protection, leading from the promenade deck to the small attached floating platform used to transfer passengers or crew to the lighter whenever it deigned to arrive, a dubious thing during Carnival. A call from below in a deep voice.
“Hey, mon! Up on deck!”
The deck officer stared down the shadowed side of the vessel, a sheer cliff pierced by portholes, seeing the bobbing rowboat at the foot of the gangplank and the four men half-standing, balancing themselves expertly, steel drums of various sizes dangling from their necks by frayed ropes, the lights from the cabin portholes beginning to strengthen in the darkening night, washing the water of the roadstead green-yellow against the black of the shadows.
“Yes?” The deck officer, together with most of the upper echelon of the ship’s personnel, spoke what he considered fair English. It was essential; a large portion of the cruise passengers each trip were from the United States.
“Oh, mon! How you like some real island steel drum up there on that deck, eh, mon? Good music, sir. The best.” A hand over the heart, not wavering in the slightest despite the bouncing of the small boat. A wide smile. His three companions silent, watching. “Believe me, sir. My word!”
The deck officer grinned down at the histrionics beneath him and then shook his head. He was young, neat in his almost-new uniform, his naval cap with its braid cocked nonchalantly over a nautical crew cut, and he knew the book from cover to cover. Except, of course, the proper angle for a young officer to wear his cap. But the captain was ashore with all the rest.
“Regretful, boys. Can’t be had.”
“Oh, mon! Good music, sir!” There was the slightest touch of reproval in the deep voice, sorrow that the young deck officer should be so bound by rules, especially during Carnival when everybody knew there were no rules. Particularly, one would have thought, a Brazilian. “Best music on the island of Barbados, sir. My word on it.”
The deck officer fought down a grin. “Yet against the regras, I fear me. Não pode ser. I regret.”
The Xavier Affair Page 18
